The Mystic Sea

The smell of the sea in my nostrils, The sound of the sea in my ears; The touch of the spray on my burning face, Like the mist of reluctant tears. The blue of the sky above me, The green of the waves beneath; The sun flashing down on a gray-white sail Like a scimitar from its sheath. And ever the breaking billows, And ever the rocks’ disdain; And ever a thrill in mine inmost heart That my reason cannot explain. So I say to my heart, “Be silent, The mystery of time is here; Death’s way will be plain when we fathom the main, And the secret of life be clear.” by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Chinar Cottages- Flipping through Past Pages

Morning

The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The couquette rose awakes again Her lovely self adorning. The Wind is hiding in the trees, A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, Until the rose says “Kiss me, please,” ‘Tis morning, ‘tis morning. With staff in hand and careless-free, The wanderer fares right jauntily, For towns and houses are, thinks he, For scorning, for scorning. My soul is swift upon the wing, And in its deeps a song I bring; Come, Love, and we together sing, “ ‘Tis morning, ‘tis morning.” By: Paul Laurence Dunbar